News & Opinion

The sun’s going down and we’re cruising a section of the Bronx that feels almost rural, with neglected fields filling with weeds and tall trees casting long shade, but the streets are so alive, turn a corner and there are young Latinas hanging out in shop fronts, many young New York dudes doing whatever modern dudes are doing, we’re from California and we’re out of touch. New York is heavy with the continuum of something happening, like a higher voltage Paris or Rome. It’s still happening.

We abort an attempt to get to our hotel in Elizabeth, NJ. It’s a Friday and everyone’s trying to get out of town. The 95 Cross Bronx is jammed. We turn around, a series of urban passageways, magic, through warehouses and tall projects, and we’re on the BQE, then we’re off on Atlantic Boulevard, spectacular view of downtown Manhattan and the docks, the ghosts of the Twin Towers looming as they will forever. We pull up at Hank’s Saloon, another fearless New York attempt to replicate a Texas culture more foreign than Kurdistan, but it’s so fearless that it works. This place is funky, tiny stage, long bar, big window through which the band and Brooklyn can stare at each other.

Tony Gilkyson and Rob Douglas help us dump our non stage gear in the ancient cellar below the street, we set up, and soon enough we’re playing. A good rocking set by the Hawks, seconded by Tony and band. The Plowboys from South Carolina set up, but we’re out of there, Shawn and Paul M to Elizabeth, NJ, Rob and Paul L whisked away by patron saints Charles and Gina to their new and elegant high rise digs in the South Bronx. Charles has just learned to drive, and he handles the late night cruise along the Harlem River like Seinfeld—very relaxed.Next day the Hawks rendezvous at Joe’s Pub in the Village, in the big and old New York Public Theater building complex, which has been divided into a series of stages and performance halls. We wander the halls through the old, venerable reading rooms. We feel the history of New York theater rising up out of the floor. Literature makes it’s stand against music once again in a competition of the arts. Which is better, more powerful, stronger? How many artists have faced these questions and looked for the grand compromise between the two? Leonard Cohen comes to mind first, if only because “Suzanne” is playing through the iPod. Then, of course, there’s Roger Daltry, Robert Plant, and the rest. The Public Theater tries to bridge the gap, and succeeds. Joe’s Pub is a great room, modernized with black sound baffling, a great sound system, comfy couches and low tables. The Hawks and Tony race through a quick and pro afternoon soundcheck, then scatter across the Village.

Washington Square hosts acrobats, comedians, and impersonators these days though the occasional folkie still struggles to be heard among the hyped-up electrified modern performers. ISHILA is glad to report that a strong cappuccino is still easy to find in the Village. Some artifacts still remain from the lost Beatnik revolution. Returning to Joe’s Pub that night, we catch the tail end off what seems like a parody of foundation grant performance art: a tap dancing female poet backed up by a fusion bass player, French percussionist, and oud player. Poet recites poetry, tap dances, bares her soul. The audience is rapt. The Hawks are redneck simpletons baffled by this cultural mashup. Is it terrible, or simply pretentious? It’s certainly well executed. Later we find out it’s no joke at all, these articulate hucksters are the beneficiaries of a generous grant from the Guggenheim Foundation. Can someone who knows this game please get us some money?

NYC is like L.A.: you have to play here again and again and again, and you still might not have a following. Which we don’t. Enough friends and country rock fans fill Joe’s Pub to make an audience quorum, and the Hawks do a solid set. Tony’s set is fiery, lighting the dark recesses of the room.

The lid to the mason jar was loose. Somewhere between DC and Hartford, CT, the moonshine has slowly leaked out and soaked The Economist magazine. An ironic juxtaposition of cultural artifacts. Farewell, whisky, we love ye well.

Don’t ask us how we know, but we know the most carefully guarded secret since George Bush met with Osama Bin Laden to plot 9/11: the ending to the Harry Potter series. Promise you won’t tell anyone, because we could get in a lot of trouble for this. Anyway:

As expected, Harry fights a climactic battle with Voldemort, a spectacular duel that plunges the pair into secret caves at the bottom of the Hogwarts lake, sends them soaring into the stratosphere where all is blue violet and twinkling stars, and summons legions of demons and good spirits from ancient millennia, in a pitched battle for the soul of Earth.Deep in a dark and phantom woods, Harry and Voldemort are thrust into solitary confrontation by unseen forces. Face to face, inches apart in the swirling mists, both strike with equal force, speed, and timing. Their wands, sparking and hissing, lock in a moment of frozen eternity, an eternity so cold that snow falls and birds drop from the sky. Day turns to night, glaciers rise like ghostly steam, crushing the forest, and Harry and Voldemort, locked in kindred hatred, shatter into a million sharp and glittering fragments . . .

Sleep, long and dreamless. Then grogginess, thick and heavy. Slowly Harry wakes to his surroundings: total darkness. The air is close and damp. Harry struggles wildly, lashing out and sending unseen boxes and bags toppling, then calms himself. He reaches out. A doorknob, somehow familiar.Harry opens the door. Light, afternoon, a hallway. Of course. He’s back with the Dursleys. Harry’s heart sinks. He lusts, improbably, for the adrenaline of mortal combat, for his lovely and terrible world of magic. He walks into the kitchen. The Dursleys greet him, coldly, as Harry might expect, but with solemnity. “Harry, we need to talk.”

The Dursleys tell Harry that they’re boarding up his closet. He’s too old for these infantile flights of fancy. They’ve confiscated his wand, and they’re enrolling him in a weight loss program in Swindon.Harry looks down at himself. He’s fat.

“After all, Harry—you are our only son.”Harry remembers. His potent fantasy, his escape from dreary suburban English life and its numbing school system, evaporates.

That night Harry realized that he was a warrior. He was not destined for this world. And if he was banished from the closet under the stairs, he was going to escape by any means necessary.At midnight, Harry smothered himself with his own tear-soaked pillow in the silence of his bedroom.

Or at least he tried. His parents found him gasping for air, and pulled him from his downy pillow’s death-grip. Harry returned to school that September, where he passed his exams. He lost 35 pounds and was rewarded with a ferry ride to Southend On Sea, where he consumed bags of french fries with mayonnaise and several butter tarts.

Dear readers: The Hawks wish to start a hobby farm and restaurant somewhere in L.A. We’re looking for a one acre lot for high density organic gardening and an oversized Victorian house to convert into a restaurant/café/performance space. Perhaps the Adams or South Central area? We’ll grow the food and prepare gourmet meals, including artisanal goat cheese from the goats grazing on the front lawn. We’ll sponsor a farmer’s market (guaranteed organic produce only) and have acoustic music afternoon weekends and evenings, and host special eco events.

The South Central farmers got the shaft, but their vision must live on. Every fallow open space in Los Angeles should be fair game for food growing. The City of Los Angeles can sponsor a program to set up irrigation and fencing on empty lots all across this vast housing sprawl.

The Hawks almost made a big culinary blunder: we’d just played WWUH, big shoutout to Ed McKeon, who did a masterful interview as we played a bunch of acoustic songs. (And just as big shoutout to John Ramsey, station manager and chief engineer, who gave Paul L two slo blo 1 amp fuses for his guitar amp.) We were driving down wide avenues past early 20th century Hartford mansions set back on vast lawns, the vision of the top of the American financial heap, and we were hungry (as of this writing, we still are).

We chanced upon a minor mall, and lo, spied a Ruby Tuesday’s in all its glossy corporate logo glory. To our own shock, we walked in. Luckily, late 80’s overproduced pop blasted us from the foyer back into the afternoon heat before we committed to sitting down. Now we’re driving Interstate 91 south for New York City, where we play in Brooklyn tonight.

Café Nine is a real bar, with brick walls and a crudely walled stone basement and brick floor. Upstairs is a small stage and long bar with Bass and Guiness on tap, and posters of the top second tier Ameicana acts: Dave Alvin, The Iguanas, Los Straitjackets, Big Sandy, Robbie Fulks, and even BR549 have played this tiny room. Because it’s got that undefinable American classic barroom vibe. We’ll play there even when we’re turning down Conan O’Brien. As a matter of fact, just to feel empowered, we’re hereby officially turning down Conan O’Brien. Conan, we love you. You are very funny. But we’re going to have to say no.

The Café Nine night began with a good crowd, all a bustle with the anticipation of country rock. At 9:45, something strange happened. An earnest young man took the stage and sang an a capella version of an old slave song. He then brought up a keyboard playing friend and they jammed. The audience watched. The Hawks fled the room. Which was a big mistake, for the noodlers noodled unsupervised with self-empowered fury.for a solid hour.*By the time Tony did his set and the Hawks set up it was midnight. We played seven songs and the bartender announced last call. Good night, New Haven. We’d love to come back, if you bag the opener.

*A series of comments on the opening act:Improvising is not for the beginner. The most successful improvisers are arguably the jazzers, who are highly trained and have played complex tunes a million times before they are free to do what their inner voices dictate. When you know one or two scales, you should wank at home. — Paul L

It sure made me wish that samplers were never invented. – Paul MOr delay pedals. – Rob

Jon Brion can do this kind of thing. – Paul LSo then he played this bad part that he looped, and I’m hanging with it, and then he plays this part—de deee deet deet deet dee dee dee deet deet—completely unmusical, and that’s when I walked out of the room. — Paul M

We should have kicked his ass. Paul L and I were on the verge of kicking his ass outside the club. Sort of when the two writers beat the shit out of Dan Rather on the street, as an artistic act. They were wearing masks. – RobWhat do you think about a u-ey here? — Paul M (we’re lost somewhere in Connecticut near New York)

The two brothers later wrote this book about how they lost their family’s entire fortune gambling on the riverboats in Tunica, Mississippi. – RobBrothers? – Shawn

They were white guys. Shawn, you got any ibuprofen . . . bitch? — RobThere’s this guy in L.A. who always loops stuff, and I say to him, why don’t you just play it? –- Shawn.

End of conversation. We’re at the Athenian Diner in Milford, Connecticut, and it’s time to eat. Kind of hot outside.

There’s a Little Italy in New Haven, Connecticut. On one side of Wooster street sits Frank Pepe’s Pizzeria. On the other, Sally’s Apizza. For decades the lucky residents of New Haven have debated which pizza is better. Well, we didn’t get the chance to try Pepe’s but I SEE HAWKS IN L.A. is very seriously considering awarding its highest honor to Sally’s Apizza. Final votes are yet to be tallied but it looks likely that Sally’s could be declared the Best Pizza in America by these very Hawks.

What is it that makes this pizza so perfect? you must be thinking. First off, there is only one thing on the menu at Sally’s: pizza. No salad, no garlic bread, no pasta dishes. No parmesan or even red pepper flakes to adulterate their flawless formula. The menu is one page where you choose your size and toppings. That’s it. We ordered three Labatt’s Blue beers to round things off. They arrived and we waited for the pies. We chose a PL vegetarian pizza of mushrooms and black olives and a classic pepperoni, Old paintings of Frank Sinatra and John F. Kennedy looked down at us from their places on the wood paneled walls among framed newspaper articles praising Sally and his fine pizzas. We settle in, arriving just in time to watch the line form outside the door as each booth is now filled. The pizza arrives. Each pizza comes on it’s own rectangular cookie sheet. The pizzas are not exactly round, they are thrown roughly into the natural near-circles, appearing like flattened stones. There’s nothing fancy going on with these ingredients. There’s no goat cheese or stupid whole wheat crust. It’s just thin traditional crust, sauce, mozzarella cheese, chosen topping, but it’s perfectly executed. The crust is crispy around the edges and on the bottom, but just barely crispy. These pizzas have been cooked in a very hot oven for a short period of time. The pizzas look beautiful. How will they taste?

With the first bite, the pizza is still too hot. How often this happens, a pizza or two arrives, everyone dives in unable to hold back the anticipation, only to find it’s just too hot. Luckily none of us burn our mouths, it’s not that hot. And it still tastes good, don’t get me wrong. But it’s clear in a couple of minutes the pizza will be the perfect temperature for eating, the temperature where all the distinct flavors and textures can be fully appreciated. And so that time does comes. The Hawks grow quiet and focus on eating this deliciously simple and complex pizza. We feel a artistic kinship with Sally and his apostles. This is what good art is: a complex idea expressed in clear and simple terms with a respect for tradition and genuine culture. No short cuts. High quality ingredients. A deep connection to the land beneath one’s feet. We celebrate regionalism! Thank God for pizza like this.

As North Korea waves its impotent (taepo-)dong at the world, we’re driving boldly northward on I-95, America’s drug running corridor, not running drugs of course but running country rock. Country Rock! Country rock for America! Original country rock in defiance of North Korean missiles! If we stop playing country rock the terrorists are winning. Come to us ye merry Americans! We call out to you in harmony of tone and spirit with wings and arms spread. Our hearts are wide open for you. Do with them what you will, but be gentle, be gentle for we hold a dead man’s hand of Aces and Eights, waiting for a bullet in the back. Two pair, but not just any two pair. What was the fifth card and what will it be?

We’ve got a quarter jar of Wilkes County, NC moonshine sitting in the cupholder, spreading good vibes through our Suburban interior. Moonshine molecules float through our mobile enclosed space, tickling our nostrils and our country rock fancy. So–we flew in direct from LAX to Washington D..C yesterday in a brand new Boeing 777 leased and operated by United Airlines. Each seat had its own individual television with 50 cable-tvish channels. There was a great shark program on, as there usually is, called “Air Jaws.” Off the coast of Cape Town in South Africa great white sharks sim straight up from the depths at speeds approaching 30 mph. With prey locked in their jaws they shoot into the air, breeching fully above the southern waters. These prehistoric missiles, (not missals – the Catholic prayer book, and unlike the North Korean dongs) thrill and terrify us all.

Will Garrison Keillor address this latest Korean missile crisis in his next radio broadcast? Perhaps, but this hit or miss Robert Altman of the radio waves could just as easily ignore it altogether. He’s gotten bolder in his critique of America’s madness, veering into Martin Luther King territory, that area where the speaker must duck when a car backfires. When will someone stand up and pelt this writer/broadcaster, the soul of highbrow middle America? Perhaps, like the Simpsons, he’s under the radar and over the heads of the vicious beast that got JFK It’s 4 p.m. in DC adjacent Virginia. Not very Virginia up here. Jassa, our Sihk cabbie, whisks us away from Dulles International but quickly he realizes he’s made a wrong turn due to being distracted while trying to program his new GPS unite. We get back on the right track then lost again. The GPS is a step behind, recalculating as The Sihk gives Paul Lacques his map. The GPS proves to be extraordinarily accurate and even prescient, predicting our arrival in Leesburg and replotting the directions with our brave turbaned warrior abandons a clogged commuter artery. We make it to PL’s brother Gabe’s house in historic Leesburg, Virginia, within two minutes of the GPS prophecy.

We invade Gabe and Deanna’s basement, haul up our amps and drums, reload, sip moonshine, and drive to Vienna, VA, another DC bedroom community framed by trees, canals, and swamps yielding to Suburbia Americana. Jammin’ Java is in a mini-mall with a generous roadside parking lot. It could be the new roadhouse, as funk vanishes from the roads. Pierced and dyed young women in black smoke cigarettes on the concrete walkway. Some of them work at Jammin Java and direct us around to the back. The mini-mall isn’t so mini, it’s a long drive to the back entrance, and the interior of JJ is huge, brick walled, and mysterious. It doesn’t match its anonymous exterior. Very cool.

Tony Gilkyson and Rob Douglas greet us. (Kip is a newlywed, congrats, and subbed out till we go to UK in August.) Paul L puts new old stock 1950’s GE 6V6GT tubes in his amp, which promptly blows a fuse. You’d think Paul would have learned from past Ebay purchases, but no, he hasn’t. He puts the old tubes back in, and the amp works fine. Rolling the dice, he replaces a smaller 12AX7 tube. This one works, and the amp sounds great, rejuvenated. It was getting tired on the first leg of the tour, and now it’s frisky, even brash.It’s another small but wiry crowd in the dark halls of Jammin Java, but a good time is had by all. Gabe and Deanna, their cute and bright as a penny near one year old Carlin, Deanna’s mom Bonnie and her man Jake are full of enthusiasm and good cheer, hang for the Hawks and Tony. Jake’s excited, appropriately enough, by Tony’s barn burner instrumental “Late for Jake.” Two fellow Mayo Spartans from Rochester, MN surprise RW. The vibe is alright. The Java sound man and intellectual waitresses are great, and we want to come back.
Load up in the misting humid late night, bye to baby Carlin and keepers, 2 hour drive to Elksburg, MD, arbitrary stopping point discovered by Paul M in his hotel booking stint. A Hampton Inn bordering a woods and mosquito pond, comfy, with cookies and tea at 2 a.m. But it’s only 11 p.m. west coast time, and we’re not burnt at all. Watch France beat Portugal 1-0, and crash out.

Paul L was hoping for Germany vs. France. Nostalgia.We’re on east coast country rock time next, day, wake at 11 p.m. and load up. Rob and Paul L sprint the 100 yards to the Waffle House, a country rock exercise regimen that we can probably adhere to. Eggs, hash browns smothered (and capped for Paul M), two orders of cheese and eggs, and we drive north on the 95. Paul L accidentally averts a toll exit, driving blissfully through an EasyPass only lane. Will an expensive east coast traffic violation ticket be arriving in the mail?

The New York City Skyline rises up on the horizon. The first thing you notice is the missing World Trade Center towers. The band debates the Freedom Tower. Should it be built? What, if anything, does “Freedom” mean in this context? Stalin’s freedom, or Townes van Zandt’s? NYC gets the Hawks jacked every time. We cross the George Washington bridge and our pulses race. It’s so public. There’s the high rise tenements with the homies on the wall, and the elegant old smaller brick co ops where you know the yuppies grind their beans fresh. No anonymity, and thus anomymous. We’re listening to 1980 Mink DeVille, the perfect east coast soundtrack. She’s a mixed up shook up girl.